


Intimate

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, Some Fluff, season two era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 06:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan watches Vera sleep.





	Intimate

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to interrupt the emotional whirlwind that is my other fic with something a bit lighter. Enjoy! :)

In a crooked world, comfort exists.

A quietude slithers through the sanctuary that is Joan Ferguson's bedroom. This moment is shared by two rather than one. It's a privilege to lay beside her. Rarely does she indulge anyone in accompanying her to bed.

Somehow, her deputy finds a place by her side.

Joan rests on her side – sleepless – intent on observing this strange, albeit timid woman.

Tonight, a lamb lays next to a lioness.

With her hair splayed across the pillow, the little mouse is dormant at last. Vera's cheek settles atop her upper arm. Worry, stress, and anxiety seem to melt away. The delicate inhale, exhale of her breathing forms a sonorous melody. The light flutter of her lashes is akin to a butterfly's beating wings or perhaps, the cliché: a moth to the irresistible flame that threatens to consume her.

Joan is not one to wax poetics.

She can appreciate art, but she does not make it.

Since Vera entered her life, a body now becomes metaphor.

It reminds her of the field mice she found behind her childhood home, snug and warm while they led their simple lives, sleeping in anticipation of devouring and destroying everything in their wake.

Her curly waves brush her cheek that's lined with soft peach fuzz. In her sleep, Vera sighs. Joan watches the act, silently enthralled.

There is an innocence in the body beside her. Vera is different from Jianna. Her petite form is reminiscent of a porcelain doll. The only affordable memento from her mother before Ivan smashed it in a fit of rage. She squeezes her eyes shut, relives the shatter, and opens them again. Unable to resist, her fingers glide through Vera's soft, chestnut hair

Desperate for warmth, Vera inches closer.

At first, Joan maintains her distance. Then, they lay a hair's width apart.

Her eyes darken as a mantra repeats itself most convincingly: _I will not touch her. I will not fall. I will touch to control. I will not fall._

Categorized thoughts place themselves on the backburner that makes up Joan's complex mind. She now wonders – fleetingly – what dreams Vera has. The steady rise and fall of her chest presents an irresistible allure to a voyeuristic gaze that's matched by the pitch black environment.

After weighing her options, Joan makes her move. Her palm coasts along the curve of Vera's shoulder. It's the first touch, one of a great and terrible intimacy that could overpower, crush, and deny. Her chest feels heavy. Vera doesn't awaken.

By choice, she shifts the throw to cover Vera bare shoulder.

It is a refined art to refrain from exhibiting emotion. Her pale face remains a stoic mask.

The human body produces exponential amounts of waste. Dead skin cells, strands of hair, and the dirt that follows all shed from this outer shell. It's filthy to think about. For once, the thought doesn't cross her mind.

A blissful serenity occupies the space between them. Joan's over-processed, mechanical mind finds peace in the moment. She finds that the curve of Vera's jaw is soft to the touch, akin to warm velvet.

Before things get too complicated, she could end Vera's life. She could press the v of her hand against the hollow of the dormant mouse's throat and squeeze. She imagines this and wets her lips that gleam in the moonlight.

The younger woman rolls over. Steadily, tenderly, she inches towards Vera and wraps a secure arm around her midriff. A squeeze. It's safe here. It's safe and warm. In a surprising paradox, what couldn't have been now is.

Joan rests her chin atop the crown of Vera's head, both a blessing and a curse in disguise. Silver on black veils Vera. Consumes her in the same way that Joan has been consumed.

Vera's back presses into her stomach. She feels the ridges of a spine, threatening to break free from its frail, pale skin. That tawny skin is akin to a timid doe in an open field, awaiting the bite of a starved wolf. Joan surmises that Vera Bennett wouldn't last one moment in prison behind the iron curtain.

The analog clock flashes the time: bright, red, and angry. Before she realizes, the eager dawn slips through her window, shining past the dark curtains. Try as she might, she struggles to resist temptation. To allow this moment to last forever.

Five in the morning has crept up on her. Pounced on her without the mercy of a handshake for the sake of sportsmanship. This yearning (a hurt that is worthy) has robbed her of the hours. She's never taken time to appreciate the sun rise. The feat has never served a purpose in Joan's itinerary, but the soft, golden glow illuminates Vera in a way that renders the governor breathless.  
  


 


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